


Unknown and Unfeeling

by awake



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Gen, im begging, there needs to be more fic of the Hansens pls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:05:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awake/pseuds/awake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chuck gets that it’s pathetic, that his future ends with this apocalypse, but this is also when his past began.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unknown and Unfeeling

**Author's Note:**

> The reason why there's pretty much no dialogue in this is because I remember almost none of the Hansens' lines sorry  
> also some of this most likely isn't canon-compliant but sshhhh
> 
> If you get anything out of this fic, I hope it's a desire to write better Hansens fic because THAT'S WHAT I WANT.

The Striker Eureka. It’s a gorgeous name for a fucking gorgeous robot, the only Mark 5 Jaeger in the world – fast, powerful, equipped with several ridiculously expensive explosives. Perfect. It’s worth $100 billion, the Australian division’s finest, silver-plated, its systems more functional and seamless than ever before.

And Chuck’s piloting it.

Not that it’s a surprise. By this point he’s only got a couple of simulated wins under his belt, but he’s the best pilot in this program by far. Him and his father.

Him and his asshole father.

\---

Most people assume Chuck’s mom isn’t around because she’s dead. That the Hansens are so emotionally stunted because of all that tragedy and trauma. They’re probably not wrong.

The three of them had lived in Sydney, the Pacific Rim, Chuck and Herc’s shared birthplace, up until Chuck was seven. Then Mom and Herc had had enough of each other, which Chuck can really freakily understand, so the guys went out of the city to Brisbane and she stayed behind. She wasn’t the type of person comfortable with change (this he also freakily understands), a petite, withering blonde, so she must’ve still been there all those years later when the first one appeared.

Scissure the monster, the alien fiend that shocked the world. A lot of Jaeger personnel were birthed in that attack. It’s different when you see it, but not on a news channel like some TV show. When you fear it and for yourself and the people you love. He didn’t know back then but he knows that now, and he knows he’s good enough to single-handedly pick off the Kaiju one by one, and he knows that’s a damn lie.

Scissure takes out a lot in its three days of terror, and his mom had been incredibly close to the shoreline. From a young age, Chuck accepts that she and Herc were completely done when they separated, but they had a kid, so something is owed, right? But when they call a day later, the line is dead because there are no lines left, and her neighborhood is flattened. Chuck has seen enough quiet, weary fights, more frightening than screaming matches since his parents no longer seemed to care at all, that this _doesn’t_ destroy his life and give him complexes and huge parental issues. Not all by itself.

So yeah, the ‘probably’ is ‘most likely’ is they’re right. He curses himself.

\---

Chuck could go on about the Striker Eureka for hours. It’s unreal, working a Jaeger, working a Jaeger like _that_ instead of the nearly decommissioned and scrapped Gipsy Danger or some rusty Mark 1. _His_ Striker has an AKM chest launcher with missile launchers that could blow a small city to kingdom come, brass knuckles, sting blades attached to its hands, and freaking _angel wings_. And it feels so good to have power, the absolute confidence that he’s brilliant with it. It’s obvious he isn’t brilliant at anything else.

He gets that it’s pathetic, that his future ends with this apocalypse, but this is also when his past began. It’s worse that his life is basically his dad’s. They’ve Drifted, shared minds and everything they have, including things Chuck never, ever wants to speak of. Herc is silent about it anyway, which is good, and his head never snags on scarring memories or gross romances. At least Chuck’s spared the gruesome details.

What he hates most, though, is that there’s little point in Drifting for Herc, because there’s nothing to hide. They’ve been focused on the Jaegers since before he got those things called hormones, so girls? Off-limits. He fools around, but there isn't a single serious relationship or memorable face, and that sort of mentality was exactly the _last_ thing he needed growing up. He has no memories that aren’t monitored, no secrets to a guy that won’t do more than sigh or shout or look disappointed – in himself or his son, Chuck can’t tell.

He hates that he relies so heavily on Herc, that they’ve only got each other and they’re equally likely to die, that he feels closer to his beloved bulldog Max than everyone else, classmates that couldn’t compare and commanders that won’t and whoever isn’t swept up in it, that there are monsters trying to take over the whole damn world. He hates failing. That’s what the attack on Sydney was, (his) Earth’s failure to protect the human race it put there. He sat on the carpet in front of the TV screen while the damage grew, and sat, and felt _useless_. It was, Chuck decided right then, the worst feeling in the universe.

When he turns fifteen and finally starts classes, some of which Herc oversees, it’s over. The Jaeger program is what he eats and breathes.

\---

_It’s so fucking worth it._

Chuck crows in undiluted triumph as the monster topples, oozing bright electric blue and diced up and ugly as hell. Adrenaline pumps through his body, wired to the machines. Sparks shower everything that isn’t him. Copters hover around, hollering story after news story over the footage. Striker Eureka’s has just taken down its ninth monster, tying with the highest kill count.

_“Australian pilots Hercules and Chuck Hansen, father-son duo, have just defeated one of the first ever class 4 Kaiju…”_

Several meters away, Herc pants and winces, unable to disengage or treat his bleeding shoulder, where the machinery, crumpled inward from a violent blow to his hemisphere of the Jaeger, is clutching at him with a vengeance. Chuck is unharmed, albeit slightly dizzy, and smirking like a maniac. This makes it a four-Kaiju streak for him.

They leave it up to the governments’ special cleaning crews to dispose of the carcass and wade into the ocean, where they’re picked up and flown back to base. Herc’s wound is treated, and Marshall Stacker Pentecost even visits to compliment them on their fine work. Chuck glows as he ‘yes, sir’s and ‘I will, sir’s. His dad, as usual, says little but exchanges a lot of looks.

The next day, the Kaidonovskys nod at them from across the mess hall, their private, sincere congratulations. The Wei triplets are impassive, immersed in whatever meditative practice they do to stay in tandem all the time. Chuck never has problems synchronizing with Herc, walking and shifting and turning the same, but those guys have a bond on a whole other level.

_Whatever._ Striker’s still the best, proof that the Hansens don’t need to try to win. Half his allies see him with something like awe, most older than him with naked jealousy. The candidates for pilots of the last few open Jaegers dwindle, but there are still a lot of them, and they see him how he likes best. The construction workers, though, look at him with admiration but trepidation. They don’t want the rush, the danger of combat, the risk of a painful death. They don’t know.

Chuck needs them to touch up his robot, but he doesn’t respect them.

\---

The more frequently the monsters appear, the more things go downhill.

One moment Striker Eureka’s finishing up with its eleventh victim, Metavore (or ‘Sydney,’ since the states of creativity and the economy are correlated), and Chuck’s snarling answers into some reporter’s mike ( _goddamn fucking_ walls! Don’t these morons understand that’s not the solution at _all?),_ the next he’s staring at Raleigh Becket’s blank, beat-up face.

Herc invites him to their meal table, of course. Heat simmers underneath Chuck’s skin when he notices. He’s too angry to care about any whispered praises for Striker and feeds Max as mechanically as a Jaeger, passing down maybe too much of his lunch, not giving a shit. His hands are licked adoringly. Chuck holds back a grin. One glance up and his annoyance returns full-force.

Becket has this stupidly accepting aura on, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a washed-up has-been. A threat to their mission, more fit to hose down the Gipsy Danger than steer it. He doesn’t even have a co-pilot. The guy definitely gets irritated when Chuck points it out, but how can he not grasp the logic? How can reality make so many people piss themselves?

Their program _has_ to use the Gipsy Danger; they’re running out of funds. That burns him up. He won’t pretend to understand all the science that people are trying to use to explain the attacks. It’s been worthless so far, and he isn’t. But the monsters are coming faster, and they’ve got the Gipsy ready to run.

Which is why Chuck thinks, _why Becket?_ Out of every trainee, Pentecost chooses the retired construction worker who busted his Jaeger on a category 3 and was Drifting with his brother when he died. He may have won that round by himself, but you don’t recover from that, you don’t get second chances with second pilots after your first one’s gone.

The worst Striker Eureka ever performed was during its second fight, when Chuck was feeling overly confident from how easy the controls were coming. Striker’s helmet was breached, slicing his face, the arm on his side decapitated, legs wobbling on a few threads of steel. Jets kept flying into the Kaiju’s tail or the ridged bones on its back. Chuck could see the spray of blood from one of the closest, past the blinding orange of the explosion, and he knew Herc saw it too, because all of a sudden fear took over his mind, and he felt gut-wrenching terror for a son he didn’t have, who’s too young to die, who’s meant to go places when this horrifying war is over.

It might be strange that two family members who Drift together are able to leave so many things unsaid, but Chuck had always thought that his dad thought Jaeger piloting was cool. Finding out that he didn’t, that this is all some kind of duty to him, made Chuck feel sicker than the gouts of blood dripping into his mouth or the soon-to-be familiar nausea from being tossed around.

In any case, Becket fled the program after _his_ debacle, proving he wasn’t qualified. Chuck may be the youngest pilot, but he’s trained hardest. One thing he’s certain about: the American and whoever his partner is will get them all killed.

\---

Mako Mori and Raleigh Becket turn out to be a far, far worse pair than anything Chuck could’ve predicted. He doesn’t bother keeping his voice down as he protests to the Marshall, flinging his arms up with sheer rage. The fact that he’s without a doubt right, and Pentecost has to agree, bolsters him.

Outside, Becket has the nerve to not look even a little sorry for letting the girl freak and almost kill everyone. Chuck swears at both of them, unpracticed, arrogant bitches no more capable than construction, and then _he’s_ the one getting punched and held back and talked down by Herc.

_Fuckfuckfuck,_ he thinks later, digging his knuckle into his cheek until the purpling bruise hurts. He’s glad that Mako’s dismissed (for good, he hopes; Pentecost always favored yet restricted her, and she was _okay_ with it), that they’re banned from the Gipsy Danger, but he doesn’t feel triumph. He feels steam-rolled, crushed by his chest plate, humiliated. Not just by Becket’s punches. In his father’s eyes, everything he does is wrong. Well, a lot of what Herc does is wrong in _his._

Chuck lets out a burst of laughter. They’re walking clichés decked out in flashy armor and shoulder caps painted military green, fighting aliens with big guns and bigger robots. This isn’t just hilarious in hindsight.

\---

Herc looks at him solemnly and asks, “Want to do something stupid?”

They climb to the top of their de-powered Jaeger. Hong Kong’s multi-colored knives of lights twinkle, much brighter now that Striker Eureka’s been rendered dim and lifeless. Chuck’s been assigned to protect this city until death, so he will. The flare guns are comfortable weights in his gloves. Almost casually, he throws one at Herc. Neither of them are stupid, so they’re not about to giggle in the face of their imminent doom. But they’re not going to weep about it either.

Remorse claws at Chuck for the fallen pilots of Cherno Alpha and Crimson Typhoon that he’s known since the beginning, even more so since he’s closely following them and exposing the citizens. Still, he’s no longer the boy from his second battle. He’s not in the Drift, he senses only his own fear and concern, and it all narrows down to the present.

They take aim and fire, hitting the Kaiju 4 in its gigantic face. A flare sinks into one of its eyes, dying it red, but there’s no sign that the monster’s anything more than mildly annoyed.

Light-hearted for him, Chuck tells Herc this, and sees a glimmer of pride through the dark. They’ll never get to say anything more, but Chuck’s cowardly enough that his guilt’s watered down with relief. They’re stranded in this ocean, but they decide to be immovable. It’s just them. Every other Jaeger is gone, except –

The Kaiju turns toward them. The Gipsy Danger arrives.

\---

Chuck can’t stand his dad, but he’s certain they’re Drift compatible. That has never been in question.

At this point in time, they’ve officially been given the robot, they’ve suited up a few times, and they’re meeting the really high higher-ups for the first time. He shakes leather hands and does a few interviews, which are ego-stroking but, admittedly, fucking pointless. Herc says he doesn’t like them.

The two board Striker Eureka with wary tenseness, even though they’ve worked together for a long time and his dad is already on the verge of _becoming_ a high higher-up. Chuck is unruly and disobedient, hyped up on his scores on the aptitude tests, while Herc criticizes him over any misconduct. They both treat each other’s opinions like crap, which Chuck guesses is why they synchronize.

One hour later, when they depart the Jaeger and the Drift, things are different between them.

Chuck is subtly consumed with shame. He tones down his temper, and for a week his combat partners are grateful. His father grows quieter, quicker to end a conflict, and stays that way. Chuck wants to be annoyed at what the Hansens consider coddling, but he’s undeniably glad that he’s not getting shout at anymore. Their newfound companionability, to his mortification, makes his throat tighten. It isn't something he thought he'd have.

Drifting doesn’t change everything. In fact, the more they do it, the better they get at hiding which memories are most important, which memories cut deepest. Each time, their lives intersect in a more and more dispassionate blur. It’s infinitely more frustrating than before, because now Chuck has the rare insight that Herc is a human being as well as a distant authority figure, but a lot of him is unknown.

Despite their perpetual silence, Chuck discovers he actually _can_ stand his dad. It’s not as though they have a choice. Together, they launch into war and rocket to the top.

\---

As Herc claps Becket on the back and applauds Mako, Chuck nods to Becket past the cheering crowd. There’s nothing to say. He isn’t dead, and the Gipsy succeeded. Their celebration is over almost immediately, though, after the Marshall subdues them with his speech then stalks off, nose dripping crimson. Chuck’s read enough reports and heard enough anecdotes to put the pieces together. With Pentecost gone, he doesn’t know how they could carry on.

With the Kaidonovskys and Weis gone, the Jaeger program won’t carry on much longer either. Humankind’s final assault has to be soon. And Chuck won’t be a part of it.

Herc’s arm is badly broken. He puts it in a sling without complaint, disguising whatever pain there is, but there’s no way he can operate Striker. So Chuck shows up to greet Gipsy Danger’s pilots in a defiant jacket and cotton shirt and jeans, Max padding alongside him.

Mako and Becket are suited up and wondering why he isn’t, and he explains as sullenly as he can. His medley of irritated expressions is securely in place, but his stomach is filled with rocks. Chuck should be there. He’s _been_ there for as long as possible, tracking news of all the monsters and robots, determined to fight and willing to train for it. And now he feels – relief that his dad isn’t going on this suicide mission and frustration and disappointment that _he_ can’t, and dread because four Jaegers were far better than the one the world has left.

Then Chuck is saved (and damned) again when his self-proclaimed new copilot strides through a set of doors with full body armor on and a spine made from metal. Eyes swivel as Marshall Pentecost walks over to the pilots and stares pointedly at Chuck.

It’s not a question of whether they’re Drift compatible. They’re possibly the Jaeger program’s two finest pilots, so they’ll _make_ the Drift work.

Later, Pentecost tells Chuck in blunt terms what he thinks about their partnership, calls him _simple,_ a bratty trope with daddy issues. Chuck is beyond pitching a fit at a superior’s treatment, but he reels before his defenses come up. It’s true that he isn’t complex or anything, or interesting, or reserved as Pentecost. But he doesn’t feel simple.

\---

The crazy scientists have proven their worth by discovering Earth is lost, so it’s up to the Jaeger pilots to prove theirs by debunking it.

\---

Herc is a soldier. He’s been a soldier since before Chuck’s conception (which, by the way, he REALLY FREAKILY UNDERSTANDS), and it drives their family apart. The only way he could keep it from driving his son away was to make Chuck a soldier too.

And Chuck _wanted_ it. He was too ambitious to feel pushed or pressured. The best moments of his life were shared with Herc when Chuck was fourteen, fighting clumsily and yearning to be like his dad.

He blames all these fucked up things that happened afterward on puberty. At least, that’s what comes to mind when Herc intercepts him and Pentecost before they reach Striker Eureka.

Herc’s visibly pained. Chuck automatically thinks it’s because of his arm, but no, his eyes are red-rimmed and teary, and Chuck has never seen him cry.

The very real possibility that this could be his last day on Earth is abruptly overshadowed by the fact that, if it is, he’s leaving his dad behind. Tears well in Chuck’s own eyes, hot as fire, making him choke on his words.

“I’m sorry,” says Herc, “that I haven’t – that I didn’t –”

“It’s okay, dad. I get it,” Chuck barely scratches out. He does.

He’s going to die.

He feels okay.

\---

Chuck does his first and only Drift with Pentecost, and the next instant they’re miles beneath the waves, swerving around an enormous, radiant portal and fighting pretty damn well. It isn’t enough to spare them, they acknowledge jointly, but if they have any say in this, Mako and Becket will make it.

When Chuck grins and tells the Marshall, “It’s been an honor serving with you,” he expects the same pride that Herc showed him their final fight together, the pride Pentecost holds for all of his pilots. He receives it, along with a heavy fist to his unguarded face that knocks him out cold.

\---

Chuck wakes up, and his right arm is missing. He wakes up, and he’s alive, and he knows this isn’t any afterlife because this is clearly a hospital and he’s drugged up on morphine, unfeeling. He smells iodine and sanitizer. His face is puffy. He wakes up, and the world is remade.

Becket and a stranger’s faces are on a miniature television beside his bed, their voices tinny and unfocused, describing reparations. Chuck doesn’t see a date. The camera pans through scenes of construction workers rebuilding atop the rubble in Sydney, Hong Kong, California, everywhere. Smoke still clouds the skies, but people are outside, with masks on, towels tied over their noses and mouths, to fix things in the aftermath. They amaze him.

The door opens. He can scarcely turn his head to look down at his injuries or see who it is. His whole body is probably mummified or something. An elated doctor walks in, jabbering about recovery and weeks lost and miracles. Chuck squints at the man, struck with vertigo, and hears something else.

Hears a bark.

Max dodges nurses and carts and tumbles into his room, surprisingly agile on his old, stubby legs. Chuck reaches out with his one arm, ignoring the doctor’s weak protests, and lets his dog slobber happily over the gauze.

If Max is here, that means Herc is too. Chuck has no way of knowing for sure that the Gipsy Danger made it, that the Kaiju didn’t rise after their (the Marshall and Striker’s) sacrifice and kill a good deal of people before being shot down, but – _yeah fucking right._ He trusts all of them. And the Drift leaves a connection. Pentecost’s content farewell is as deeply ingrained into his soul as Herc’s pulse.

He hopes his dad didn’t worry.

Herc worried. This Chuck knows, and feels.


End file.
